


one safe place you could love him

by johnwtfson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, First War with Voldemort, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwtfson/pseuds/johnwtfson
Summary: It’s easy to forget that you aren’t ageing adults with the whole world on your shoulders, but rather two kids caught up in something bigger than yourselves. You can blame the weather, the news, the way Remus fucks you like he owns you; it doesn’t change that you are both twenty one, hoping like hell you’ll live to see twenty two.——A year in the life of Sirius Black, during the war





	one safe place you could love him

**Author's Note:**

> this has been a work in progress for almost a year now, and might just be my favourite fic i’ve ever written.
> 
> title is from a richard siken poem titled 'you are jeff'; "you just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him. you have not found that place yet. you have not made that place yet. you are here. you are here. you’re still right here."
> 
> i don’t own these characters.

Your name is Sirius Black. It is October, 1980, and you are twenty, going on twenty one. You are a best friend to James Potter, an annoyance to Lily Potter, a godfather to little Harry Potter, an emotional crutch to Peter Pettigrew, and... Well, a bit of everything to Remus Lupin.

 

You share a house with him in the Devonshire countryside; you have done since he turned eighteen and his mother died, leaving him with the options of staying with an apathetic father or moving out with you. There is a war going on and it frightens both of you enough to fight in it; Remus does work he can’t talk about for Dumbledore, and you do work you can’t talk about for the Potters.

 

 _It_ _’s mad and miserable that there are so many secrets involved in war_ , you think at least five times a day. You can’t tell Remus much about James and Lily; he can’t tell you where he goes on weekends away to fulfil duties scribbled down on parchment in Dumbledore’s handwriting.

 

But Remus loves you, and he trusts you; you love him, and you trust him.

 

——

 

Peter doesn’t. He sits in the wooden chair in your kitchen, eyes darting around the room while you fix him a brew.

 

“He isn’t here, Wormy,” you say, passing him a cup and the sugar bowl with a small smile.

 

He accepts the tea with a nod, his eyes fixing to the sugar. “Where is he, again?”

 

“Out. Secret stuff. You know what Dumbledore’s like with his errands.”

 

“Yes, yes, of course.” His eyes are still on the sugar, and you push it closer to him.

 

“Go on, I know you’ve always had a sweet tooth,” you smile, and he looks up at you; his eyes are watering, ever so slightly. You put it down to hay fever, even though Devonshire is well into autumn and you hadn’t managed to keep your garden thriving past September.

 

“Sirius, I...” He falters, using a small spoon to drop heap after heap of sugar into his tea. He stops after four, and stirs it for good measure. “I know you love him.”

 

Your smile falters. “I do, Pete.”

 

“This secret stuff... How can you trust him? How can you be so sure?”

 

 _Because he wouldn_ _’t betray us. Because he wouldn_ _’t betray Lily. Because he wouldn_ _’t betray James. Because he wouldn_ _’t betray Harry_ , you think.

 

_Because he wouldn_ _’t betray me._

 

“I s’pose I just do,” you say. “I know that’s not enough to go on, but I do.”

 

Peter whispers something under his breath that you don’t hear, and you let it stay that way. Then, with a sigh that gives you the impression that every word he’s saying pains him to his core, he says, “I’d... Just keep an eye out. I don’t want to make this a werewolf thing, but...”

 

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and he doesn’t need to. As he drinks his tea, you fill in the blank.

 

_The werewolf thing doesn_ _’t help._

 

——

 

Remus does his best to not make everything into a werewolf thing; you could always see him do it. It was in the way his muscles used to tense when he’d retell stories of getting fired from jobs he hadn’t wanted but had needed, and how he had smiled like he was hiding a bullet wound when James gave a newborn Harry to you to hold first, and Peter second, and him last. Now, it’s in the way he nods a little too much when you are summoned to the Potter household alone, and in his acceptance of every scar he gets from trips he can’t talk about. You know he doesn’t like exposing the werewolf thing, and he especially doesn’t like exposing it in the people he loved. _Maybe_ , you think, _that is his greatest flaw. He wants everyone to like him too much._

You can hardly blame him.

 

“How’d you get this one?” you ask, tracing the scar on his left forearm lightly. He had returned from another Dumbledore-induced adventure not an hour ago, a day after Peter’s visit. You have had twenty four hours to think through his words, and you don’t like where they are leading. You don’t like the sense they are making.

 

“You know I can’t tell you, Pads.”

 

His voice is soft, and if he feels annoyed by your repetitive asking, he doesn’t show it. You’ve known him ( _loved him_ ) long enough to see the pain and anger he hides behind his light smiles and calm words, but you can’t help but wonder if there is more hidden away, more he doesn’t let you see. Annoyance at your asking? Anger at your prodding? Loyalty for your enemies?

 

“I can hear your brain from here,” he says, taking your fingers from off of his scar and into his hands. “Knut for your thoughts?”

 

You shake the questions from your mind and flash him a smile, broad and daring. “Just happy you’re home. Missed you, Moons.”

 

He returns your smile and your heart leaps, like it did when you were in fourth year and realising his beauty for the first time. “Missed you too.”

 

——

 

Halloween rolls around after what has felt like years of listening to names listed from the wireless, healing bruises and burns and scars on Remus’ skin, and watching attendance shrink at meetings. It’s Harry’s first Halloween, and despite the fact that trick-or-treating is off the cards, James and Lily are determined to make it good for him. So naturally, all of your friends ( _or, at least, all who remain_ ) are crammed in the Potter living room, dressed in child-friendly costumes and sipping butterbeer. It resembles a mother’s meeting more than it does a party, but the practically still newborn Harry and Neville appear to enjoy the attention.

 

It feels silly, to you, to celebrate ghosts and ghouls when the really scary stuff lies in the things Remus doesn’t tell you, and the way you’re not entirely sure you’ll both make it to Christmas. You tell this to James while lying on his bed, the two of you sharing a bottle of firewhiskey away from the crowd.

 

“You can’t think like that,” he says, in between swigs. “The Christmas thing. You just can’t, it’ll ruin you.”

 

You sigh. “I can’t help it. I... Every time Remus leaves, or I go out to take watch, I end up wondering, ‘what if this is the last time?’ And then, yesterday, we were talking about what we’ll do for Christmas, and I had a moment,” you explain. “It’s not far, and I’ve never been the type to do anything in advance, but Moony is, and I... I nearly asked him if it was worth it. If we should wait a month before planning, just in case.”

 

You take the bottle from him and swallow the liquor too slowly, letting it burn your throat. James watches you and says, “I know what you mean. But if you start thinking you’ll be dead by every holiday, you’ll drive yourself mad.”

 

“Madder than I already am, you mean,” you snort. He manages a chuckle and, much like Remus’ smile, it makes your heart leap.

 

“Berk.”

 

“Wanker.”

 

“Git.”

 

“Arse.”

 

You place the bottle on the nightstand and jump on him, wrestling like you used to back when you were both sexually frustrated sixteen year olds sharing James’ bedroom in the summer. It’s a quick affair that ends up with you on top, panting with victory.

 

“You always win,” James says, shoving you off of him and onto the space on the bed beside him. “Never mattered that I’ve always been two inches taller.”

 

“Size doesn’t matter,” you laugh.

 

He grins. “I s’pose you’d know.”

 

“If you wanted to talk about Moony’s cock, you only needed to ask.”

 

Years ago, he would have shoved you and told you to stop being disgusting; now, he rolls his eyes and snorts. “I reckon you just like talking about it.”

 

“Reckon I do,” you sigh, feeling him roll so that he faces you instead of his ceiling. You roll to mirror him.

 

“You really think... He could be the traitor?”

 

_Yes. No. Maybe. I don_ _’t know._

“Wormtail said to keep an eye out.”

 

“You trust Wormy?” he asks.

 

You shrug, and try not to hear the words you’re saying as they leave your mouth. “Sure. I trust Moony, but Pete was right - I love him. If... If he is the traitor, I won’t want to see it. So I have to look for it, just to be sure... Right?”

 

There’s a knock at the door before James can respond, and Marlene McKinnon appears with Neville Longbottom balanced on her hip. “Are you both such alcoholics that you have to sneak away from a baby’s Halloween party to drink?”

 

James chuckles and sits up, squeezing your shoulder. “Love you, Pads.”

 

“Love you, Prongs,” you say, watching him slip past Marlene and go downstairs to rejoin the party. Marlene watches you closely with a look you can’t quite decipher, because Marlene is an enigma that few people can solve; she reminds you of Remus, in that regard.

 

“Alright, Black?”

 

You flash her a smile, hauling yourself off of James’ bed to wave your fingers in front of Neville’s face. “Of course, McKinnon.”

 

She raises her eyebrow, unconvinced, but nods and passes you Neville. “Good. Now, I better find my girlfriend; I want to sneak away from this Halloween party to drink.”

 

——

 

Your twenty first birthday occurs shortly after Halloween, and it’s a smaller affair still, which is how you end up squashed onto one of your couches between Lily and Marlene, watching James bounce Harry on his knee opposite you as Remus lights candles on a cake. Superficially, it could be forgiven for thinking this is a joyful gathering; all signs point to a group of friends sharing alcohol and cake until the early hours of the morning.

 

The devil only ever lies in the details, and the details take the form of Peter whisking you away after your second slice of black forest.

 

“Any news? Anything...” he trails off in the dark of your pantry, illuminated by light peaking through the kitchen shutters. He’s struggling to find the right words to say; you’d help him, but you’re not sure you’ve found any, either.

 

“It’s same old, same old, Pete. Scars like a pin cushion. Long leaves for Dumbledore. Nothing I haven’t seen in him before.”

 

Peter seems unsatisfied with this, but it doesn’t matter - the pantry door swings open and you both jump and turn.

 

“Oops?” Dorcas Meadowes, all smiles and sunshine and Scottish brogue, looks equally sheepish and amused. Remus stands behind her with a blank face.

 

“Oh, Doe, you’ve exposed us and our passionate love affair, you wench,” you laugh, swinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders; if you notice him tense under your touch, well, you don’t make a point of showing it.

 

Dorcas swings her head back in laughter and nudges you in the ribs lightly. “Right, of course, my bad. Now, if we could just steal the sugar from you chaps, we’ll leave you on your merry way.”

 

Peter mumbles an apology and scurries for the sugar while you watch Remus lean against the sink and stare at the ground. He looks up with tired eyes once you move to stand right in front of him and press your fingers into his.

 

“Was a bloody good cake, Moons,” you whisper, smile as dazzling as ever but with a softer tone of voice. “Outdid yourself.”

 

“Mmmm. Good to know,” he says, smiling without really meaning it. Your eyes search his for any indication he’s caught on to what’s happening. He notices, gives you a look you can’t fully decipher, and simply says, “We’ll talk later, Pads. Go enjoy your party.”

 

 _We_ _’ll talk later_. Your heart sinks for reasons you can’t explain as you slink away, until Marlene, still entirely an enigma, finds you slouched against the outside of house.

 

“It’s fucking freezing, Black. What in the name of Merlin’s saggy tits are you doing out here?”

 

You smile, but it’s weak, and Marlene is observant. “Just enjoying the fresh air, McKinnon.”

 

“Yeah, pull the other one,” she snorts, hugging her arms to her chest in a desperate attempt to create warmth while collapsing beside you against the house. You remove your hoodie and hand it to her, ignoring her protests.

 

“Freezing is incredibly punk rock. Didn’t you know? Also, with a figure this good, it’s almost criminal to cover it up.”

 

“You’re so irritating, Black. Irritating and gay,” she grumbles, but pulls the hoodie on anyways. It’s a testimony to your height that it’s too short on her.

 

“Why, as a fellow irritating gay, I thought you’d understand,” you say, and a flash of a smile dances on her face for a fleeting moment. As soon as it’s gone, she returns to her hard-as-rocks façade.

 

“You wanna tell me what’s up, or are you going to continue to be a sook about it?”

 

 You consider all the reasons why you should tell her not to worry, to leave it; it’s not her business, it would paint Remus in a poor light, it would expose half a dozen secrets others have trusted you with. There’s also the fact that you’ve never been overly close to Marlene - everyone always assumed you were the same people, but while you have always been bold, brazen, and flippant, Marlene is guarded, reserved, and serious. You share a take-no-prisoners attitude to life, but your shared similarities start and end there. However, you are in desperate need of a pair of ears that don’t come attached to overly vested interests, and Marlene fulfils that criteria perfectly.

 

“How about I tell you what’s up if you light me a cigarette and then fetch me a blanket - and some more cake, if Peter’s left any, mind. Deal?”

 

——

 

The blanket’s slightly thin and the cake tastes worse when accompanied by a cigarette, but you’re not complaining. Well, not about any of that, anyway.

 

“There’s a lot I can’t fully say - secrets in war and stuff, y’know,” you say, and Marlene simply releases smoke into the air in response. “So, uh... Peter’s worried. ‘Bout Remus. Being a...”

 

She saves you from verbalising it, and you mentally thank her for doing so. “Surely you’re all barking if you think, even for one second, that Remus is in cahoots with You-Know-Who.”

 

“Can you blame us? I...”

 

“Yeah, I get it, you love him and you won’t see it in him unless you look for it, I know,” she says. “But have you stopped to realise how looking for it might mean the complete opposite? That you only see it?”

 

You have stopped to realise that, but that’s not the point. “Are you saying you’ve never considered Doe to be a traitor? Not doubted her, even once?”

 

She shakes her head. “You don’t get it, Sirius. That’s what war wants. It wants to tear you away from everyone, everything you love. It wants you to leave a worser person than you entered.”

 

“And what if she was a traitor? What if that philosophy of yours failed you?”

 

“Then I grieve, and do so knowing I gave her every reason to not be. But I only cross that bridge if I come to it,” she sighs. She stubs her cigarette out on the ground and pulls the blanket closer to her, bringing you closer as well.

 

“So is that it? You’re upset because Peter’s gut is about as trusting as a pair of sodding pants? You’re dramatic, Black, but even this seems beyond you,” she says, shoving you lightly. A sign the softer Marlene is gone again, quickly as she came.

 

“No,” you sigh. “Peter was trying to gage if I’d noticed anything since he last spoke to me about it all and, uh... Remus might have caught the tail end of it.”

 

“Oh,” she says. “Right.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

There’s half a slice of cake sitting in a tupperware container between the two of you; Marlene takes it with nimble fingers and shoves the whole thing into her mouth.

 

“Well,” she says after an impressively short time spent chewing and swallowing. “That’s a bit...”

 

“Unfortunate?” you offer. She shakes her head.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Oh,” you say. “Yes.”

 

——

 

It’s well past midnight when the back door swings open, making both yours and Marlene’s heads turn. You’re half-expecting to see Remus, hunched over in nervousness, or even James, wondering where on Earth you’ve disappeared off to. Instead, Dorcas Meadowes’ silhouette sways ever so slightly against the inside light, glass of wine in hand.

 

“There you two are,” she smiles, shutting the door behind her. “Been looking for you everywhere, y’know.”

 

You flash a dazzling smile at her. “Well, here we are, baby.”

 

Marlene snorts and rolls her eyes at you, both Dorcas laughs softly and settles down in Marlene’s lap, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “Everything okay? Rem’s antsing about in the kitchen and pretending like he doesn’t want to come out here, Sirius.”

 

Trust Dorcas to read a room and know exactly what to say; you take her hand and kiss it softly, relishing in the tinkling laughter she offers in return. “Oi,” Marlene protests, as you do the same for her.

 

“Thanks, Doe. You’re a gem and a half, you know that?” You stand up, brushing cake crumbs and ash from your legs as you do. “And cheers, McKinnon.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Marlene huffs, ever the stoic. “Keep your head on, Black.”

 

You nod in response and move to the back door, turning back to blow kisses as Doe yells, “Love you, Sirius!” You’re still half-turned around when you step through the doorway and thus don’t see Remus, making his way out at the same time.

 

“Oh,” he says, eyes still undecipherable. “I was-“

 

“Coming to look for me?” you offer. Remus gives a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“S’pose I was.”

 

“S’pose you found me, too,” you say, stepping closer to him, head tilted up to look at him properly.

 

“S’pose I did, yeah,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around you, and suddenly you’re kissing, which is peculiar, not least because you’re realising you haven’t kissed in forever, not properly, not like _this_ , and made all the more strange because you still have no idea what Remus is thinking. Still, snogging Remus senseless is a lot easier than saying everything you aren’t saying, so you fling your arms around his neck and let him pull you into the broom closet, hooking up like you’re teenagers. It doesn’t occur to you that not too long ago, you were.

 

As Remus fucks you into the wall, he mumbles into your ear. “Happy birthday, Sirius,” he says, and then he’s coming, and you are too, and you think you’re talking, but you’re not saying anything at all, and you both know it. As Remus cleans you both up with his wand, you wonder how long you can both afford to keep this silence paved between you. And as he exits the closet, leaving you alone in the darkness, you wonder if it isn’t already too late.

 

——

 

In the days after your birthday, the sky grows darker. A storm is coming, in more ways than one. You learn from Lily that Frank and Alice Longbottom have been tortured to insanity, and this is where, you think, it starts. Suddenly, you are not kids anymore. Suddenly, the war is a hell of a lot more real than it ever has been.

 

“It just isn’t right,” she sighs, stirring milk into her tea. Her eyes are tired, bloodshot things from crying, and she bares very little resemblance to the woman she once was, you muse. James is out on Order duty, and Remus had left you earlier that morning to buy groceries, so she had invited you over so you could be a little less lonely together. It’s odd, being alone with Lily, but she’s right; you’re a little less lonely in her house than in your own.

 

 _Interesting, that,_ you think, and then dismiss the thought before you can properly delve into what it really means.

 

Baby Harry, growing every day, sits in her lap, eyes wide with curiosity. A horrible thought hits you.

 

“Neville?”

 

She draws Harry closer to her. You wonder if she’s aware she’s doing it. “Was with his Grandmother, they say. S’pose that’s who’ll take care of him, now.”

 

Silence falls over you both for a moment. Lily isn’t meeting your eyes, instead choosing to focus intensely on her tea, not drinking it. You reach out and grab her hand, and, to your absolute horror, she starts crying.

 

“Oh, Sirius,” she sobs, squeezing your hand with her own, sprawling her other on Harry’s chest. “It’s-“

 

“Shhh,” you say, for lack of anything else, gently stroking her hand with your thumb. “It’s alright, Lils. Neville’s alright. He’s okay.”

 

She shakes her head. “Not just Neville.”

 

“Alice is... She’s alive, Lily. Anything is possible, healers are able to do more and more everyday, now, y’know?”

 

“Not... Not Alice, either,” she sniffs, and you’re about to start talking about Frank, even though you’re pretty sure Lily’s never been close with him, but then, you’re pretty sure she’s never been close with you, either, and here she is, crying uncontrollably whilst holding your hand. Lily saves you from another fruitless attempt at figuring out how best to console her. “What if anything happens to us? What... What happens to Harry?”

 

Ah.

 

“Oh, Lily,” you whisper, standing from your chair to wrap her in a hug, careful not to smother Harry in the process. “Nothing will happen to Harry.”

 

“You...” she says shakily as you pull back, crouching down to let Harry play with your fingers. “You can’t know that. No one can.”

 

You look up at her, eyes serious and gentle. “Perhaps. But I swear, on my life, no one’s going to hurt Harry. I know they won’t. You wouldn’t let them. Neither would James. And I certainly wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

 

She places her hand on yours, this time, and brings it to her lips, pressing it gently against them. A few years ago, you would have laughed at her for being ridiculous and soppy, would have teased her about finally coming to her senses about which half of the Black-and-Potter duo was better. Now, you let her do it without a word. “And what about Rem? Peter? They wouldn’t either, would they?”

 

If James has mentioned Peter’s suspicions about Remus to Lily, she’s not showing it, and you’re certainly not going to voice the thoughts you’ve been keeping deep down inside of you for months now. “If the time comes, we’d all protect the little guy. We all love him like he’s our own, Lils,” you reassure her, and hope like absolute hell that it’s true.

 

——

 

Christmas comes, and you’re both still alive for it, and you mention this to Remus as you wake him up with a soft kiss to his nose, then his forehead, before pressing your lips to his. He’s still sore from the full moon four days before, but his eyes flutter open and he curls in closer to you.

 

“Lucky us. Still alive, and feeling the freezing cold to prove it,” he breathes, pressing his cold feet against your legs beneath your shared blankets, chuckling when you squirm away from it. “I thought I fixed the heater?”

 

“I, erm, sort of assumed you forgot. So I tried to fix it with magic, and...”

 

Remus rolls his eyes. “Merry Christmas, Pads.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Moony.”

 

Later, you exchange gifts (you receive a book on Muggle wars from Remus, he receives a pair of wonkily knitted socks and a bar of dark chocolate from you) and skip Christmas lunch for a shared bottle of mulled wine in front of your tiny fireplace. Remus leaves after three glasses to smoke out near the towering trees, but only after you berate him to put a sweater on, and a coat, too.

 

You watch him from the porch, taking in every idiosyncrasy he offers to this corner of the world where no one exists but the two of you; his shoulders slump to hide his towering height, his hair wild with weather, his lips puckered ever so slightly to blow smoke into the freezing cold atmosphere. You take it all in, as if trying to learn it to memory, like the Hogwarts exams you never studied properly for - maybe you know that soon, you will not be allowed to keep this, or him, or this one safe place where you can love him.

 

Maybe you don’t. It doesn’t matter, either way. When he comes back to the house, he pats you on the shoulder, and when you kiss, the nicotine and the wine and the cold burn your throat. It’s the worst Christmas you’ve had since leaving home, _but_ , you muse, _it might end up being your last_. You imagine James telling you off for thinking like that, but there’s a lump in your throat when you pull away from Remus, and try though you might, no amount of tea or firewhiskey swallows it away.

 

——

 

The new year comes and goes, and when Remus’ 21st finally arrives, it’s an entirely different affair to yours. Your friends don’t gather to eat cake and smoke cigarettes; rather, the Potters have gone into hiding and only you know where, and Peter refuses to stay in the same room as Remus, and Dorcas and Marlene... Well, you haven’t heard from them since your birthday.

 

You walk around the house you share aimlessly and restlessly, still building emotional walls with everything you aren’t saying ( _can_ _’t say_ ). You know he notices, know he hasn’t fully forgotten the night of your 21st; his eyes study yours over cups of tea, and in the shower, and late at night when neither of you sleep.

 

 _It_ _’s a horrible thing_ , you think, the night of his birthday, after his eyes have long lost the battle to stay open and lose sleep, _to find a stranger where there once was something more_.

 

He tosses and turns under the duvet all night, knocking limbs against yours and making you wonder what he dreams about. Or if he even dreams at all. You ask him the next morning, after a bout of sex that felt too rough to have happened as the sun came up.

 

“If I do, I don’t remember them,” he says, and doesn’t ask about your dreams. “I’m going to make tea - want some?”

 

“‘Course.”

 

He leaves to put the rusting kettle on the stovetop, and you listen to the sound of his feet padding on the linoleum kitchen floor. You suppose this is just another way of filling the silence, with a boiling kettle and bags of earl grey.

 

He returns with a cup for him and a cup for you, and you murmur your thanks into the tea. You can feel his eyes on you again, but it’s different to the stares that help pave the walls between you both; this look is a bulldozer, knocking them down.

 

He looks soft, holding his own mug and looking at you from behind his overgrown fringe. He looks young, and gentle, and so fucking _content_ , and it makes your heart ache and your hands reach out to pull him towards you for a kiss.

 

It’s easy to forget that you aren’t ageing adults with the whole world on your shoulders, but rather two kids caught up in something bigger than yourselves. You can blame the weather, the news, the way Remus fucks you like he owns you; it doesn’t change that you are both twenty one, hoping like hell you’ll live to see twenty two.

 

——

 

Marlene McKinnon is killed in June, 1981. They tell you her whole family is wiped out; all you can think of is, _they left Dorcas Meadowes behind_.

 

Doe, sweet Doe, who used to laugh at your jokes in Transfiguration class, and worked tirelessly as a healer down at St. Mungo’s, comes crying on your doorstep. You think she’s there for you, because you used to be close friends back at Hogwarts, much to everyone’s surprise, but it’s Remus she runs to, collapsing in his arms in a way you’ve never done. He catches your eye, looking remarkably unsurprised at her actions, before wrapping his arms around her and whispering something into her hair.

 

You go to make tea, but when you re-enter the living room, both Dorcas and Remus are gone. Placing the mugs on your coffee table, you notice that they’re both outside, on the porch, and to your surprise, Remus still has Dorcas wrapped in his arms. They look... Well, they look comfortable, even though she’s still crying and he’s visibly pained with the upcoming full moon in three days time. They look how you suppose you and Remus once looked, and it crosses your mind that this almost certainly can’t be the first time they’ve found comfort in each other. It makes you wonder how you missed it. It makes you wonder what else you’ve missed. What else you’re still missing. 

 

You leave them to send a letter to James, as well as a letter to Peter. You’re still not certain Remus can’t be trusted, but one thing is for sure - he’s been keeping more secrets than just the things he does for Dumbledore. As you write this down on parchment, you begin crying, and you’re still crying as you attach the letters to your owls and send them off.

 

——

 

James meets with you the next day, arriving wordlessly at your doorstep with a solemn look. It’s been forever and a day since you’ve seen each other, and you let him in quietly, aware that Dorcas and Remus are both asleep in your living room on separate couches. It says too much that it’s the most restful night’s sleep you’ve seen him get in years. James glances over their sleeping forms with a look you can’t read, before shuffling into your kitchen.

 

“So you think...”

 

“I don’t know what I think, Prongs. All I know is I can’t be certain that it isn’t him, and I think it would be... Well. Better safe than sorry, perhaps,” you whisper, and it pains you to say it, but it’s probably about time you did.

 

“So what are you suggesting?” James whispers back, eyes darting to the living room again. Dorcas lets out a soft sigh in her sleep, and shuffles over onto her side, facing the couch Remus sleeps on. _Interesting, that._

“I’m suggesting,” you say, lowering your voice every more and following his eyes to stare at the curve of Remus’ body, rising and falling slowly with every breath. “That we switch. Wormtail for me. If it is... If it is Remus, he’ll think it’s me, and You-Know-Who’s people will come for me, and you’ll be safe.”

 

“If you’re sure,” James sighs, looking back at you. His eyes are so old, for someone so young. Your heart aches, and you stand on your tiptoes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He flashes you a pained smile, and says, “You know what that will mean, right?”

 

“Yes,” you say. It will mean torture, pain, and a world of misery for you. It will mean missing Harry’s first birthday, future Christmasses, for however long they need to be hidden. It will mean not being able to see your godson, or Lily, or worse still, your best friend, indefinitely. “But if it keeps you all safe... Well. Whatever it takes, it’ll be worth it.”

 

——

 

July comes and goes, and you don’t get to see Harry turn one, but you send a gift to Peter to deliver to the Potters anyway and are rewarded with a letter from Lily, and a photo of your godson, zooming around on his very first broom. It makes you smile in spite of everything, in spite of Remus’ absence for days, now, away on another errand that arrived, presumably, in Dumbledore’s handwriting.

 

After three weeks away, Remus returns, older and wearier than before he left. You don’t ask any questions, and he doesn’t exactly give any answers, but you talk, for what you will later learn is the last time for just over a decade.

 

“Dorcas died. Last week. Killed personally by You-Know-Who,” he says. In front of him, his coffee grows cold. You don’t remember when he started drinking coffee instead of tea. It could have been weeks.

 

It could have been years. You don’t know.

 

You nod, and feel nothing. She had been your friend, once. Now, you can only remember her as another wedge that drove you further apart from Remus. Or, rather, she was the final brick in a wall you never wanted to build in the first place. Remus, conversely, looks like a part of himself died with her. _It probably did_ , you think.

 

“I’m... I think I’m gonna move out. For us. If we split up... Well, it’d make it harder for anyone who wants to kill us,” you say, and it’s not exactly the truth, and you know Remus knows it, but he nods and lets you leave the next morning without so much as a word.

 

You don’t look back as you take your bike and ride away, and you don’t see him again, and you never stop loving him. As for him, you’ll never be sure. You don’t even know if he ever loved you in the first place. And that breaks your heart, over and over again, each and every night you spend without him.

 

Each and every night. You never, ever stop loving him.

 

——

 

Your name is Sirius Black. It is October 31st, 1981, and you are twenty one, going on twenty two. Your best friend has been betrayed by the secret keeper _you_ persuaded him to choose, and he’s dead. Your best friend’s wife is dead. Your godson is gone.

 

You think of James. You think of his easy laugh, the time you kissed him in third year, the way his hand used to run through his hair, the hug he gave you when you showed up on his doorstep half drowned and on the run from your family.

 

You think of Lily. You think of her wicked grin, her freckles, the way she’d placed her hand on yours after learning about the Longbottoms, the way her bright hair was tied back on her wedding day.

 

You think of Harry. You think of his mess of hair, still soft and new, his tiny fingers that always reached out to grab yours, his baby babbling, how small he looked nestled in the crook of your arm.

 

You think of Remus. You think of his wide eyes, his lazy smile, his cigarette smoke, the way his fingers always felt digging into your hips. You think of his tawny hair and the way it fell into his eyes, the way his lips would taste like chocolate and ash, how he’d kiss you like he was a sinner and you were his salvation. You think of the house you shared, and how empty it felt, how much more empty it would have felt after you left. You think of how alone he always felt, and how much more alone he is about to be. You think of how you thought it was him, how you doubted him, and the price you are about to pay because of it.

 

You think of them all.

 

You run.


End file.
